I thought it was the last time
I would go to my circle on the hill,
with the jagged pillar of thunderous oak,
guiding my gaze for a mile or three
was it lightning, Oak, that tore your brilliance down
and reduced it to solemnity?
The artistic grace of the Galloway skyline lectures me
on beauty and splendour,
the dynamic domino-like mountains
and trickling rivers in far off valleys
surrounds me in decaying leaves,
in autumn hues,
my solitary mind wanders,
with the breeze,
no voice could follow
no echo in the gaps
If I knew then
that I was to return in this hour
I’d have cried
it’s mad
how far you can travel
when you are confined to your mind
and how free you feel to leave
when your eyes adjust to the dying light

I’ve heard your heart is for taking

and all I need is this night

if I leave, don’t get a fright

I’m just a bird, passing in flight.

Your eyes are slate grey

in the light of early dawn

sitting with a tender heart

and a hand reaching out for morning.

If I may, I’ll take a seat, my love

if I may, I’ll take a light

your eyes are sending waves, my love

and this cigarette’s gone out.

Let us talk of coming days 

while people come and go

I’d like to come and stay sometime,

dip my feet in snow.

If you look closely, you can see the child I was before the city.
Manchester is what flung me into adulthood. Before this, I had no idea how many people there were in this world. So secluded was I, tucked up in the South-Western corner of Scotland, that I spent most of those seventeen years chasing fairies and leaping around fields like a lunatic.
Rumour has it that when I was a baby, the wind was once so high and my body so light, I flew. You heard. I was lifted up into the air like a little leaf, holding my mother’s hand so I wouldn’t fly away.
Galloway was magic.
I remember swimming in waterfalls and falling asleep in long meadows, hair sticking up at right angles. Not a care in this old world.
There were several companions; my brother of course, we pretended to be Hobbits or Rivendellian elves, dashing the hills, attacking any and all enemies (mainly gorse bushes and the occasional invisible Ork.) Creating dens in the undergrowth or down by the old lightening-struck tree. Sometimes fishing (we’d throw them back in of course,) sometimes running, sometimes hiding. Then there was Bronwen the cat. She liked to follow us around the fields sometimes. She would come sloe-berry picking with us at the bottom of the hill. My brother and I used to pretend she was our protector and she would lead us into battle. And of course, there was Kelpie, our prize wolf. Or as you would see her, a dishevelled rescue lurcher; half greyhound, half Scottish deerhound. She cost me my first baby-tooth! It was dislodged from my jaw with as much elegance and velocity as a champaign cork. That is to say, it hurt. A lot. Blood everywhere. It was my own fault though, I should never have put the lead in my mouth.
And later, brother and I respectively found music.
He, before I.
I because of he.
What child doesn’t want to be like their big brother? I imagine quite a lot, but I did.
Now ever since, I’ve tried to row myself back to my little island of a childhood, in my mind. Sometimes a shot of mindfulness meditation and my imagination just won’t cut it.
It’s then I find the need to sing. It sounds cheesy as hell but it’s sometimes the only thing that keeps me sane. Or insane, it’s much the same. I could go back, physically I mean, but what use is the countryside when you’re my age? Now is the time I should be around cities and life and people. There is a lot of good in the city, it just takes some time to find it.
I just need eyes that can see.

Entry: 16th November 2018

I’ve got the solitude I craved.

I gave up everything just for a slice of the peace of mind I once had.

There is a new sky above me, a new ground beneath my feet and the postman calls with unknowing beauty.

No television makes for wonderful meditation. I can hear words start to have more meaning as they swim around my head freely, once more.

My feckless neighbour plays their stereo loud and suddenly we’re all dancing in the street.

I stole this pen because I disliked the way Joan smiled.

And it’s darker than when I started to write, it’s getting too dark to write. The sky is moping a bit too much today, I think it’s attention seeking. Do not pay it any mind.

The ironing board in the window across the street looks like a giant cricket.

hello hello
my child of snow
you arrived as I grew cold
but with you with you
little dancing shoes
and a silver ribbon bow
I grew warm grew warm
as i heard you laugh
and did you hear my heart sing

i know i know
you’re just aflow
like the river through my heart
you go you go
just as you came
my ancient work of art
you go you go
just as you came
my ancient work of art


It’s hard to get to sleeping when your head is buzzing around.

I tried to write a new song, but my confidence is whack – as ever! It may get better in time. I did a wee recording of it on my iPhone so I can return with a fresh brain.

Write apathetic, edit sober… that’s the saying, right?

I will show you, in time. It may be a good one.

I went busking the other day, on a sort of whim. It turned out to be the most enjoyable day I’ve had in a long time. A lovely street artist, by the name of Elton Darlo sketched me playing in St Ann’s Square. Soon to be a painting.

I will post on here, if I come across the finished product.

I wish the moon was full. There is no nicer feeling when you can’t sleep than to leave my curtains open and let the dappled moonlight bathe my body. I meditate myself into a near-sleep state. It’s the best I can do in these situations.


Tomorrow I am off to Doune The Rabbit Hole Festival in Scotland.

Bye for now.